


In the Darkness (With You)

by paleolithic_demitasse



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Ending, Angst, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Post-His Last Vow, post-series 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-09
Updated: 2015-04-09
Packaged: 2018-03-22 01:12:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3709407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paleolithic_demitasse/pseuds/paleolithic_demitasse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John was scared beyond death that if there was nothing but nothingness after he died, the last trace of Sherlock he had with him would be tugged from his grip forever. That was unacceptable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Darkness (With You)

**Author's Note:**

> And in the dark, I can hear your heartbeat  
> I tried to find the sound  
> But then it stopped, and I was in the darkness,  
> So darkness I became  
> \- Florence + The Machine

In, out.

In, out.

A slight pause.

Then in again, and out once more.

In, out.

John’s steady breathing was one of the only sounds he could hear. Apart from the discreet night life outside the dark flat – consisting mainly of occasional passing cars and estranged dog barks – it was quiet. This nocturnal activity, or general lack thereof, was both peaceful and strangely unnerving.

The steady hum of electricity had been cut short not ten minutes ago, killing the lights with a tired sigh. Power outages were rare, and apparently even less common across the road, where John could clearly see windows lit with nonchalant, functional lights that pointedly ignored their dark neighbour.

When the electricity had died its sudden death, John had been summoned downstairs by a shout from Sherlock. As it turned out, he had been busily carrying out an experiment involving likely corrosive chemicals and some anatomy of the dead animal of the week. Concern had had John tripping down the stairs to check on his flatmate, who was swearing under his breath, but thankfully (or not, John wasn't sure) unharmed.

Their exchange of subsequent words had been short and snappish.

Now, John sat unspeaking in his chair, trying to enjoy the unusual peace and quiet. Sherlock had gone downstairs to find a torch after blindly searching the kitchen for matches. (Didn't he know where they were? Sherlock was the one using them for experiments, after all.) When this attempt had failed, ending in another bout of swearing, Sherlock had edged out of the flat, muttering something about a torch downstairs.

John sighed, fidgeting in his chair. The flat always felt slightly different when Sherlock wasn't in it. The air of arrogance and often petulance that shadowed the detective’s every move – unless it was just John around, then sometimes he was more pleasant – was not entirely likeable or easy to live with, but somehow 221b appeared to deflate without it. John was well aware that this made no sense, and had since learned to accept what was probably just a strong fondness for his flatmate. Very, _very_ , strong fondness. A fondness that John was not incredibly keen on studying further.

Best cut off dangerous trains of thought before they did any damage. If such an idea were to become a regular thought in his mind, John could not help but conjure the image of a train wreck by way of expressing exactly how not good that would be.

_Something else, think about something,_ anything _, else._

John was saved of having to decide what this should be by the sound of Sherlock’s footsteps quickly scaling the stairs. _He must have found a flash light._

This theory was belied as the lightless doorway, still coloured an imposing obsidian black, was blocked by an even darker shade of black that vaguely resembled the silhouette of a person, halting in the doorway as if to survey the flat. John, who had turned around in his chair upon hearing Sherlock’s footsteps, observed that this person was most definitely not holding a torch.

Settling quietly back into his chair, John smirked at his flatmate’s annoyed huff at the shadowy flat.

“John.”

No response.

“John!”

“Yes, Sherlock?” The reply should have been exasperated, but instead sounded rather absent minded.

“This is preposterous. When is the last time we lost power? At least a year ago!”

Sherlock continued to complain loudly about the loss of electricity as his renewed footsteps indicated quick, bothered pacing. However, John’s mind had stopped computing what Sherlock was saying after the man had mentioned ‘a year ago’. The statement rang true, and John was sure he was right, but something about that, about that time, felt… _wrong_. (It hurt. It actually hurt. It did, and it made no sense.)

“—John?” Hearing his name spoken in a somewhat irritated voice by Sherlock cut off further thoughts about this discomfort.

“What?” John asked, not impolitely.

Sherlock had stopped pacing, and stood beside the coffee table, facing the general direction of John’s chair.

“Were you listening to anything I was saying? I asked if you had continued to search the flat for matches, like I requested.”

“Of course I did!”

This was a blatant lie. (Too fast and too indignant. Beginner’s mistakes.)

“Ah. So that’s why I heard no footfall on our floor from downstairs.”

John didn't reply to this sarcastic jab.

“John, at least have the decency not to lie to me. Besides, you know it never works.”

This definitely warranted a response.

That is completely untrue!” John twisted his head to glare at the illusive shadows that faintly outlined the detective. “I've lied to you perfectly well before. And don’t talk to me about decency, you tosser! Unless you want something, you have no sense of social awareness whatsoever, and you don’t need me to tell you that. Besides, if you had deduced that I hadn't done it, why ask me if I had?”

Without hesitation, Sherlock replied: “Because if I make you feel bad about it by bringing it up in a non-accusatory way and prompting you to lie about it, the next time you’re more likely to do as I ask. Simple psychology, John.”

John knew he should be offended, he really did, and he knew that anyone else who knew Sherlock, whose name wasn't Mycroft Holmes, would be. (But wasn't there someone else, too? Someone John knew? He felt like there was. Maybe John didn't know them well enough to remember them clearly.) He knew that this desensitisation to insults and condescension should concern him, yet despite all this, John couldn't help but grin, shaking his head fondly as he did so. What an utterly _Sherlock_ thing to say. For all his erratic behaviour and unpredictable spontaneity, it was nice to know that some things about the detective never changed.

As much as this thought was pleasing, John was surprised by Sherlock’s repeated use of this particular tactic, primarily because John did not for a moment believe that Sherlock hadn't noticed that this guilt-driven trick had never, ever worked on him. It seemed strange that the most cunning and observant man he knew wouldn't notice this and change his approach in the future.

Even in light of all that, John chose to ignore this anomaly. (What a familiar sensation.)

John said none of this aloud. Instead, he answered: “Whatever you say, Sherlock.”

This elicited another irked huff from Sherlock. Then the flat was quiet once more, happily indulging in the illusion of silence.

John no longer believed in silence. Complete soundlessness was impossible even when the external noises of a city that refused to go to bed – like a child not old enough to want sleep but aged to the point where staying awoken the whole night was possible when assisted by a little caffeine – were swallowed up by a great big invisible, omnipresent beast. Through all of this, John’s mind refused to switch off, as unwilling to rest as its owner.

The Not Silence continued.

And went on.

It wasn't unpleasant.

And on.

In fact, it was rather comforting.

And on.

John could see Sherlock begin to stir, perhaps with impatience (at the power outage? at him? John feared he may never know) but more likely with a simple desire to move about, something John was undeniably familiar with.

And on.

John soundlessly drummed his fingers on the arms of his chair, just for the sake of it.

And —

In mere seconds, the flat loudly transformed from subdued Not Silence to sudden Noise as Sherlock tried to make his way past John’s chair, probably to his own, and tripped on either the table or something on the floor. An audible thump complimented by a loud clatter and a pained curse resonated through the flat.

Before he had time to consider the improbability of Sherlock falling over something in their flat (the man had doubtlessly meticulously mapped out the exact positioning of all their furniture and any items that happened to be lying about that day) John was up and took a step forward to find, and possibly even help, his fallen friend.

(Fallen friend. Just thinking that gave John the same feeling of discomfort as earlier. But the sentiment didn't stop at discomfort, it was more than that, far more. It was sorrow. It was grief. The kind that eats at you like it has claws in your belly and teeth in your heart.)

John’s plan backfired magnificently. He did find Sherlock – by tripping over him and falling flat on his face half on top of his friend.

“Sherlock! Shit, I'm sorry—”

The man in question groaned and made a sound like he was about to start speaking as he turned over to look at John. His face stopped almost exactly parallel to John’s, their noses practically touching. Not that this was clear to see in the absence of light, but John could tell this was more or less accurate by the feel of Sherlock’s breath on his face.

Whatever Sherlock had been going to say seemed to have been forgotten. John tensed, and felt the body underneath him do the same. A long moment of Electric Definitely Not Silence (the kind that was dynamic enough to cause deafness), John finally considered moving. Considered being the operative word.

John’s hands were positioned either side of Sherlock’s rigid torso, their thighs brushing ever so slightly. Sherlock tried to ease his way into his elbows, killing the stillness. However, upon its death came the birth of a new sensation: that of Sherlock’s lips accidentally pressed against John’s.

Shock held both men captive for what felt like minutes, lips chastely on lips, noses awkwardly on noses, eyes blindly on eyes.

In the space of a heartbeat, Sherlock pulled away, gasping like a man who had thrown himself into the sea hoping to drown but had been pulled out at the last moment.

John closed his eyes in order to better observe the stars exploding behind his eyelids.

No words were spoken, and another Not Silence happily took over the room.

Head feeling like it was both falling through the thick space of every thought he had ever had and full of nothing at all, John contemplated his options.

He could apologise, but it wasn't his fault and he hadn't _not_ liked it, and Sherlock wasn't complaining either. Or maybe that was just John being hopeful. Hopeful for what? John wasn't sure he wanted to think about it, but he was beginning to realise that he would have to eventually.

On the other hand, he could pretend it had never happened, and they could both get on with their lives, never mentioning That One Incident That One Time as long as they both should live. (Another strange pang. John was becoming concerned about how little control he had over his own emotions.)

That left the final option, which was there more for the sake of inclusion and objectively considering all alternatives than for serious consideration. Or any consideration at all, really. John didn't mind. (Wasn't there someone who would mind? Did John have someone else, a girlfriend he had forgotten about? That had happened before, but this felt different, like there was already responsibility and guilt and anger and a hundred other unpleasant things attached to it. John pushed it out of his mind. He had no one else. Maybe then, but not now. That sounded about right.)

However, it had to be mentioned that if he were so inclined, John could, potentially, lean down and kiss Sherlock again. Properly, this time.

Not that that was what he was going to—

Too late.

Without thinking (and thank God for that) John had done precisely that. Why? Because when John Watson has a suspicion that he’s madly in love with someone, especially his ridiculous, handsome flatmate, he tends not to think things through.

Sherlock froze for a second as John found his lips in the dark. Then he was kissing back, and _oh my Go_ d, this was what everything in the past few months, in the past few _years_ , of John’s life (and quite possibly the rest of it too) had been leading up to. This, just this.

It was honestly as if someone had cleverly cut out bits of every other fantastic kiss John had ever experienced and then seamlessly edited them into one mind-blowing, time-stopping, eye-watering, mountain-moving, gut-wrenching, heart-shattering kiss that tasted like a relived breath quietly saying ‘finally’.

Finally.

John was lost in pleasure and ecstasy, but Sherlock was showing him the way with every movement of his mouth that bit gently at his lower lip and every swipe of that clever tongue that made John moan into the kiss. Everything was this, and this was everything.

The sound of their love was the only one John could make out, the only one that mattered. It was Not Silence and it was Deafening Small Sounds that were making John melt.

Sometime later, when John remembered that he required proper breathing to stay functioning, he slowly drew away from Sherlock. The detective sighed slightly at the loss of contact, and brought his forehead up to touch John’s, who smiled at the gesture. No words were said because none were needed.

_What a nice turn of events_. John’s grin spread even wider across his face, and soon he was laughing under his breath. Unsurprisingly, Sherlock seemed to find the same humour in the situation as John, because he was laughing too. (It was a glorious sound. Sherlock’s deep chuckle never failed to leave John breathless.) The two men continued to giggle in the darkness, until their laughter slowed and there was as little sound as there was light. John rolled off of Sherlock and onto his side, lying next to the detective. Listening to him breathe.

In, out.

In, out.

They lay unmoving, unspeaking, barely touching. Just existing comfortably near one another. (What a nice thought.)

John closed his eyes. This was incredible. This feeling, it was indescribable. It was too much. It was not enough. It was love like he had never felt it before.

“Sherlock?”

No response.

John waited a moment before trying again.

“Sherlock?”

He opened his eyes.

And felt what he should have noticed earlier.

Sherlock’s presence, the slight heat radiating from his body, the feeling of not just company but of completion, was gone. Sherlock was no longer lying beside him. Sherlock’s steady breathing did not penetrate the quiet of the flat. Sherlock’s faint heartbeat had gone from barely audible to not present.

Although he hated himself for it, John did what he did not remember doing for a long time: he panicked.

John shot up, clumsily making his way to his feet. “Sherlock!” Still no reply.

Instinct drew him to the light switch. John stumbled over to the panel that controlled the lights in the sitting room part of the flat.

He slammed his open palm into the switch.

And suddenly it wasn't dark any more.

_Why the hell had that worked?_

John blinked, eyes trying to reacclimatise to the sudden reintroduction of light, scanning the flat for Sherlock. He was nowhere to be seen.

It didn't add up, none of it was adding up. Nothing was making sense. Where was Sherlock? He had been _right there_ ; for God’s sake, John had just been kissing the man.

Breathing heavily, John squeezed his eyes shut, wishing he understood whatever it was that seemed to be going on.

"Sherlock!”

John was walking the dangerous edge between wanting to break something and feeling like breaking into pieces himself.

His eyes scoured the flat again, twice, very quickly.

When he spotted it.

Blue.

Navy blue, the shade that looked like the sky was embracing the sea, just before a storm came crashing down.

Down, down, down.

Sherlock’s scarf lay on his chair, untouched since—

Since last year.

Since Sherlock had said one final goodbye, boarded a plane and flown away from London, away from John, into Eastern Europe and forgotten to come back.

Forgotten, in this case, meaning unable.

Unable because he was dead.

(The scarf was the only thing that had returned.)

Dead, dead, dead.

Not here in the flat, not out somewhere, not at St Barts, not off in bloody Serbia doing somebody else’s dirty work. Dead.

It was, as usual, all too much.

John was done feeling. He had exceeded his capacity to do that long ago. Now it was all gone, all empty, just a big black hole in his being where Sherlock had ripped out of part of him that had probably died along with the detective.

John turned the lights back off.

The darkness was a cold comfort that had long since become an old friend.

With his back against the wall, John slid slowly down onto the floor, making nearly no sound as he sat down, knees up and arms around his legs. He must've looked pathetic.

John looked into the nothingness around him, trying to give names to each shade of shadow.

Black.

Ink.

Oil.

Grease.

(He could drown in these. Just like he was drowning in darkness. Drowning without Sherlock.)

Sherlock’s coat.

Onyx.

Raven.

Sherlock’s hair.

Coal, soot, Sherlock’s pupils, metal, sable, ebony, Sherlock’s suits.

(He was running out of ideas.)

Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock.

John tried to close his eyes, forgetting that his friend’s image was imprinted onto the back of his eyelids like an impression of a light that was looked at for too long. That was, essentially, what Sherlock was.

_Had been_ , John corrected himself. _Had been, and is no more._

He kept his eyes open.

He felt awful, and probably looked it too. Mary would have laughed at him.

( _Oh._ So that’s who that was.)

It was true, though. Mary would have laughed at him. But Mary had left him. Mary had left him because she realised what it did to John to not have Sherlock around. She, like all John’s other girlfriends, had come to her senses and left him. She had been his wife and she had been pregnant with his child, but none of that had seemed to matter to either of them by the time Mycroft had informed him of, well. This.

A few months ago, thinking about this would have made John angry. He would have screamed and lost his temper and kicked something, because it was all his bloody fault. But that was gone now.

Just like everything else, really.

Sherlock was gone and had left him in the dark. No light, no new day, no hope for tomorrow, just hurt. Old hurt, new hurt. Sherlock hurt.

Why was John still alive? Why had he not killed himself? John asked himself these questions every day. Why not go be with Sherlock? Perhaps it was because Sherlock wouldn't haven’t wanted John to do that. He had always worked so hard to keep John alive. But it didn't matter now. He’d rather be dead than without Sherlock.

So why wasn't he?

It had to be a selfish reason. John could not imagine himself as any better than that. He knew that that was self-pity. He did not care one bit. His dignity was all gone as well.

The question remained. The answer was probably somewhere in between the fact that without Sherlock, John wasn't capable of much other than existing, too sad to live and too tired to die, and the constant worry that leaving this flat would mean leaving Sherlock for good.

John had no idea what would happen when he died. He didn't believe in a heaven – war had been all the proof he needed that there was no God, and ever since religion had seemed pointless. However, it came to him that if someone appeared in front of him right now to let John know that he had died and gone to hell, part of him would not be surprised.

Nonetheless, John was scared beyond death that if there was nothing but nothingness after he died, the last trace of Sherlock he had with him would be tugged from his grip forever. That was unacceptable.

If death was darkness, then darkness was death. Sherlock was in the darkness, so if John stayed here, lights off, for as long as he could, he’d be in the darkness too. In the darkness with Sherlock. And that was good enough.

John closed his eyes.

In, out.

In, out.

**Author's Note:**

> Then I heard your heart beating, you were in the darkness too  
> So I stayed in the darkness with you  
> \- Florence + The Machine
> 
>  
> 
> (Thank you to my fabulous beta [dustywings](http://archiveofourown.org/users/dustywings)!)


End file.
